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I stand in the living room, barely able to support my dwindling form. It’s sunny out. Images of myself at sixteen, seventeen, or any of those ages flash through my weakened mind. How could I have been so foolish to waste my youth on heartache and misery? The sun is so bright and warm through the bay window, reflecting off the beautiful colors of the trees, grass, and flowers.

“Youth is wasted on the young,” someone once said.

And now I sit here wallowing in my old age and loneliness. It’s not fair. On the table beside me sits a picture of a young girl with long curly brown hair and a beautiful smile. I look longingly at her smooth skin and pink cheeks and I remember how boyfriends of the past, whose faces are blurry now, used to gently touch my face and whisper lies that I knew as such, but did not care.

I know I had it all. I had a family. I worked my 30 years. I now live off a secure pension purchased with the years of my youth. But the trees are just so beautiful and the bright sun painfully calls out to my young girl’s soul. In the distant room, the nurse calls again that it is time to take my pills. I answer her as I slowly close the curtain and wipe the tears from eyes.



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by Shel





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